The Confession That Never Happened
The Stilinski kitchen smelled like burnt coffee and hesitation.
Sheriff Noah Stilinski leaned against the counter, watching his son push scrambled eggs around his plate like they might bite back. Stiles hadn't touched a single bite. He'd been doing that a lot lately—staring at food, at walls, at the ceiling at 3 AM when he thought Noah couldn't hear him pacing.
"You gonna eat that, or are you starting a war with it?"
Stiles looked up, his brown eyes tired in a way that had nothing to do with sleep. "Debating my options."
"Your options are eggs, toast, or your father getting worried." Noah set down his own mug and crossed his arms.
From upstairs, a door slammed.
"I'm going!" Emma's voice drifted down the staircase, followed by the thunder of feet. Emma Stilinski—sixteen, one year older than Stiles, with their dad's stubborn jaw and their late mother's sharp eyes—barreled into the kitchen already wearing her backpack. Her hair was in a messy ponytail. She was shoving a granola bar into her mouth.
"Late again?" Stiles asked.
"Shut up." She grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl and kissed Noah on the cheek. "Late shift tonight?"
"Probably," Noah said. "Don't wait up."
"Wouldn't dream of it." Emma paused at the back door and looked at Stiles. Something flickered across her face—concern, maybe. "You okay? You were up late last night. I heard you pacing."
Stiles forced a smile. "Just thinking about the existential horror of high school. You know how it is."
Emma didn't look convinced, but she was already late. "Text me if you need anything, weirdo."
"You text *me* if *you* need anything."
She snorted and was gone, the door swinging shut behind her.
The kitchen fell quiet again.
Noah waited a beat, then picked up where they'd left off. "She's next door, you know."
Stiles froze. Just for a second. But Noah caught it.
"Dad—"
"Betty," Noah said, because he wasn't cruel enough to make Stiles say it first. "You've been circling her like a moth for three years, son. Either land on the flame or step away from the porch light."
Stiles set down his fork. The clink of metal on ceramic was too loud in the quiet kitchen. "It's not that simple."
"Why not?"
"Because she's Betty." As if that explained everything. And maybe it did. Betty Cooper wasn't just a girl. She was the girl next door in every sense that mattered—the one who'd taught him how to skip stones across the lake when they were seven, who'd held his hand at his mother's funeral when they were nine, who'd laughed at his jokes even when they weren't funny and punched him in the arm when they were.
She was also Scott McCall's girlfriend.
Noah sighed, the sound carrying the weight of a man who'd seen too much loss to let fear win. "Life's too short to play it safe, Mieczysław."
Stiles flinched at his full name. Noah only used it when he meant business.
"I'd rather have her as a friend than lose her completely," Stiles said quietly.
"Would you?" Noah tilted his head. "Or would you spend the rest of your life wondering what if?"
The question hung in the air like smoke.
Stiles looked down at his untouched eggs. Then he looked toward the window—toward the Cooper house, visible through the thin gap in the curtains. Betty's light was on. He could see her silhouette moving past her bedroom window.
*What if.*
He stood up so fast his chair scraped against the floor.
"Atta boy," Noah said.
Stiles was already out the back door.
---
Three Minutes Too Late
The walk to the Cooper house had never felt so long.
Stiles crossed the lawn—the same lawn they'd run through as kids, the same lawn where he'd tripped and scraped his knee and Betty had kissed it better because she was seven and that's what seven-year-olds thought worked—and climbed the three steps to her front porch.
His heart was pounding. His palms were sweating. He'd practiced this speech a hundred times in the mirror, and yet here he was, terrified of a girl with blonde hair and a smile that made the world feel less broken.
He raised his hand to knock.
The door opened before his knuckles made contact.
Betty Cooper stood in the doorway, and for one perfect second, Stiles forgot how to breathe.
She was wearing a yellow sundress—the one with the tiny flowers that she'd worn to the spring formal last year. Her hair was down, curling at the ends like it always did when she was nervous. Her eyes were the color of the sky just before a storm.
"Stiles," she said, and her voice was soft. Gentle. The way you'd say someone's name when you were about to break their heart without meaning to.
"Hey, Betts." He shoved his hands in his pockets so she wouldn't see them shaking. "I was wondering if we could talk. There's something I've been meaning to tell you, and I know it's late, but—"
"I'm glad you're here," she said, cutting him off. But there was something in her eyes. Something that looked like guilt. "I was actually just about to text you."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." She stepped out onto the porch, pulling the door half-closed behind her. "I have a date tonight."
The words hit him like a punch to the chest.
"Oh." He kept his face neutral. He'd had practice. "With who?"
"Scott." She said it like it was obvious. Like Stiles should have known. "He's picking me up in a few minutes, actually."
Stiles nodded. Once. Twice. His heart was still pounding, but now it was for a different reason entirely.
"Right," he said. "Scott. Of course."
"I wanted to tell you sooner," Betty said quickly, reaching out to touch his arm. Her fingers were warm. "But things have been crazy, and I didn't want to make it weird between us."
*Too late,* Stiles thought.
"It's not weird," he said instead. "You and Scott. That's... that's great. You guys are great together."
Betty searched his face, looking for something. Stiles wasn't sure what she found, but after a moment, she smiled. "You really think so?"
"I think you deserve to be happy, Betts." And that, at least, was the truth. "If Scott makes you happy, then go for it."
There was a beat of silence. The porch light flickered. Somewhere in the distance, a car engine hummed.
"You're more important to me than any date," Betty said quietly. "You know that, right?"
Stiles looked at her—at the sincerity in her eyes, at the way she was looking at him like he mattered—and felt something inside him crack.
*Tell her,* a voice screamed in his head. *Tell her now.*
"I know," he said instead.
Headlights swept across the lawn. A blue car pulled up to the curb. Scott McCall stepped out, and even from here, Stiles could see him smile when he spotted Betty on the porch.
"There's Scott," Betty said, and her whole face lit up.
Stiles stepped back. "Go. Have fun. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."
"That leaves a lot of room for trouble," Betty laughed.
"Exactly."
She hugged him—quick, warm, the kind of hug that felt like coming home—and then she was gone, running down the steps toward Scott's car.
Stiles watched her go.
He watched Scott open the passenger door for her.
He watched Betty laugh at something Scott said, her head tilted back, her whole body loose and happy in a way Stiles had never quite managed to make her.
He stood on the Cooper porch for a full minute after the car drove away.
Then he walked back to his own house, climbed into his jeep, and drove toward the woods.
The Woods
He didn't know where he was going.
He just knew he couldn't stay there—couldn't sit in his room and stare at the ceiling and imagine Betty Cooper laughing with someone else. Couldn't listen to his dad's footsteps pause outside his door, wanting to check on him but not knowing how.
So he drove.
The jeep's headlights cut through the darkness like knives. The roads got narrower. The trees got thicker. The radio played something sad and acoustic, and Stiles didn't have the energy to change it.
His phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen.
**Emma (10:14 PM):** *you home? dad's doing the worried dad thing where he pretends to watch TV but he's just staring at the door*
Stiles didn't answer.
**Emma (10:22 PM):** *stiles. seriously. where are you*
**Emma (10:35 PM):** *okay fine don't text back. but if you're not home in an hour i'm telling dad to send a search party*
Stiles smiled despite himself. Emma had always been like that—protective in a way that disguised itself as annoyance. When they were kids, she'd beaten up a boy on the playground for pulling Stiles's hair. She'd gotten detention for it and hadn't cared at all.
He typed back quickly before he could lose his nerve:
**Stiles (10:37 PM):** *just driving. needed air. i'll be home later. don't worry.*
**Emma (10:37 PM):** *too late. already worrying. it's my job.*
Stiles set the phone down and kept driving.
*What if.*
That was the question, wasn't it? The one his father had asked. The one that would haunt him forever now.
*What if he'd told her? What if he'd said the words—"I love you, Betty Cooper, I've loved you since we were nine years old and you held my hand at my mother's funeral"—what then?*
Would she have chosen him?
Or would she have smiled that gentle, terrible smile and said, "I love you too, Stiles. Just not the way you want me to"?
He'd never know.
He'd never fucking know.
Stiles pulled the jeep to a stop at the edge of a trailhead he didn't recognize. The woods stretched out before him, dark and ancient and hungry.
He got out.
The night air was cold. The kind of cold that seeped into your bones and reminded you that you were alive, even when you wished you weren't.
Stiles walked.
He didn't have a flashlight. He didn't have a plan. He just walked, deeper and deeper into the trees, until the trail disappeared and the only light came from the sliver of moon above.
*What if.*
He tripped on a root. Caught himself. Kept walking.
*What if.*
His phone buzzed again. He didn't look at it.
*What if.*
The sky opened up. Rain started to fall—cold, hard, the kind of rain that soaked through your clothes in seconds and made the world smell like wet earth and regret.
Stiles kept walking.
He didn't feel the cold. Didn't feel the rain. Didn't feel anything except the hollow ache in his chest where his heart used to be.
The ground gave way beneath his feet.
He fell.
Death
The ravine was deeper than it looked.
Stiles tumbled down the slope—rocks and mud and branches clawing at him, tearing at his clothes, his skin, his face. He hit the bottom with a sound that should have hurt more than it did.
He lay there, staring up at the rain falling through the trees.
The world was quiet now. Or maybe his ears were just ringing.
He tried to move. His body didn't respond.
*This is it,* he thought. *This is how it ends. Not in a blaze of glory. Not saving anyone. Just... falling.*
*Emma's going to kill me,* he thought next, and almost laughed. *Assuming I'm not already dead.*
The rain kept falling.
The darkness crept in at the edges of his vision.
And then, nothing.
The Between
Nine hours.
That's how long he was gone.
Nine hours of nothing—no light, no sound, no feeling. Just the vast, empty silence of a universe that had already forgotten him.
And then:
*"Mieczysław."*
A voice. Soft. Familiar in a way that made his chest ache even though he didn't have a chest anymore.
*"Wake up, my son."*
Light bloomed from nowhere. Everywhere. Stiles blinked—or tried to blink, which was strange because he didn't have eyes either—and found himself standing in a field of white.
No. Not white.
*Between.*
Between life and death. Between what was and what could be.
And standing in front of him was a woman he'd never met but somehow knew.
She was beautiful in the way that ancient things were beautiful—timeless and terrible and full of secrets. Her hair was dark, her eyes were pale, and when she smiled, Stiles saw something wild and clever hiding behind her teeth.
A fox's smile.
"Mom?" The word came out before he could stop it. But even as he said it, confusion flickered across his face. This wasn't Claudia Stilinski. This wasn't the woman whose photo sat on his dad's nightstand, the woman who'd died when Stiles was nine.
The woman nodded. "Hello, my son."
Stiles took a step back. "You're not... you're not my mom. My mom is Claudia. She died."
"I know." The woman's smile softened with sadness. "Claudia Stilinski raised you. She loved you. She was your mother in every way that matters. But I am your *birth* mother, Mieczysław. I gave birth to you. And I have waited sixteen years to see your face."
Stiles shook his head. "No. That's not—I'm not adopted. My dad would have told me. They would have told me."
"Would they?" She tilted her head. "Noah and Claudia found you as an infant, abandoned. They took you in. They raised you as their own. They loved you so much that they never wanted you to feel different. The secret was meant to protect you."
Stiles felt the world tilt beneath his feet.
*Adopted.*
He was adopted.
All those years, all those memories—Claudia teaching him to ride a bike, Noah coaching his little league team, Emma stealing his fries and calling him a weirdo—none of them were blood. And yet...
And yet they were still family.
"I don't understand," he whispered.
"I know." She stepped closer. "And I am sorry to tell you this way. But there is no more time for secrets. You need to know what you are, before it's too late."
The Truth
She told him everything.
She told him about the Dread Doctors—the monsters who had taken him as an infant, who had experimented on him, who had tried to forge him into something new. Something powerful. Something that shouldn't exist.
An Original Vampire, fused with the spirit of a Nogitsune, fused with the curse of the werewolf.
A tribrid.
"They deemed you a failure," his birth mother said, her voice calm despite the horror in her words. "They sealed your powers and abandoned you. Your father and I were already dead by then. We couldn't protect you."
"My father?" Stiles's voice cracked. "My real father?"
"A human. A good man. He died protecting you from the Dread Doctors." Her eyes glistened. "We both did."
Stiles stared at her. His brain was struggling to keep up. Adopted. Experiments. Vampire. Werewolf. Nogitsune.
"Then how am I... this?" Stiles gestured at himself. "How am I standing here talking to you?"
"The seal broke when you died," she said. "It was designed to break only once. Now that it's gone, your true nature is awakening. But you must complete the transition."
"The transition."
"Feed on blood within twenty-four hours, or you will die permanently. There is no other way."
Stiles stared at her. "I'm a vampire."
"You are more than that." She reached out and touched his face. Her fingers were cold. "You are a vampire. A Nogitsune. A cursed wolf. The Dread Doctors created something they could not control. Whether that makes you a monster or a god depends entirely on you."
"The Nogitsune," Stiles said slowly. "That's... that's a possession, right? A dark spirit that takes over?"
"No." His mother's voice was firm. "The Nogitsune was fused into your very being when you were an infant. It is not separate from you. It *is* you. The hunger for chaos, for pain, for fear—those are your hungers. Not an external force you can blame or exorcise."
Stiles felt something cold settle in his chest.
"You're saying I'm evil."
"I'm saying you are capable of great darkness." She smiled again, and this time there was sadness in it. "But also great love. The choice is yours, my son. Every act of cruelty will be your own. Every act of kindness will be your own. No one else to blame. No one else to thank."
She stepped back.
"The werewolf curse requires a kill to trigger," she continued. "You have not taken a life yet. But you will. And when you do, the wolf will awaken. The first full moon will be painful—you will have no control. But because you are a tribrid, after that first moon, you will be able to turn at will."
"What about the vampire side?"
"Twenty-four hours. Feed, or die."
Stiles processed this. Or tried to. His brain was still catching up.
"The supernatural world is larger than you know," his mother said. "The Originals. Different breeds of vampire and werewolf. Witches who can unmake reality with a whisper. You are entering a war, Mieczysław. Whether you fight or hide is up to you."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because you are my son." She stepped forward again and pressed a kiss to his forehead. "And because I love you. You will do bad things. Terrible things. But do them for the right reasons, and perhaps... perhaps there is still hope for you."
"I don't understand."
"You will." She pulled back. "I will be watching you. But I won't see you again for a very long time. Be careful, my son. The world is not ready for what you are."
"Wait—" Stiles reached for her. "What about Noah? What about Emma? Are they... are they in danger because of me?"
His mother paused. Her pale eyes held his.
"Everyone you love is in danger," she said. "That is the price of being what you are. Protect them. Or lose them. The choice is yours."
"Mom—"
"Wake up."
---
## Part 7: Resurrection
Stiles opened his eyes.
The rain had stopped. The sky was gray with the first light of dawn. He was lying at the bottom of the ravine, covered in mud and leaves and something that might have been his own blood.
But he wasn't dead.
He sat up slowly. His body felt different—lighter, stronger, hungrier. The world looked different too. Sharper. Colors were brighter. Sounds were clearer. He could hear birds singing a mile away. Could smell the rain-soaked earth, the pine trees, the distant scent of—
*Blood.*
His throat tightened. His mouth watered.
*Twenty-four hours.*
Stiles stood up. His legs didn't shake. His head didn't spin. He climbed out of the ravine like it was nothing, like gravity had decided to go easy on him.
But his mind was still reeling.
*Adopted.*
Noah and Claudia weren't his biological parents. Emma wasn't his biological sister. The woman who had raised him, who had held his hand when he was scared, who had made him laugh and loved him unconditionally—she had chosen him. They had all chosen him.
And now he was something else entirely.
At the top of the ravine, he paused.
Two tents were set up about fifty yards away. A campfire, still smoking. Two sleeping bags. Two campers—a man and a woman, early twenties, probably hiking the trail.
Stiles could hear their heartbeats.
Could smell their fear even though they didn't know he was there yet.
*You will do bad things.*
He walked toward them.
First Blood
The man woke up first.
"Hey, who are—"
Stiles was on him before he could finish the sentence. Faster than human. Faster than anything. He grabbed the man by the throat and lifted him off the ground like he weighed nothing.
The woman screamed.
Stiles turned to look at her. His eyes—he could feel them changing, the sclera blackening, the irises burning red-violet. The woman's scream cut off. Her face went pale. Her heart rate spiked.
*Fear.*
It tasted sweet on his tongue.
"Please," the man choked out. "Please, we have money, we have—"
"I don't want your money." Stiles tilted his head. The Nogitsune inside him—which was to say, the *him* inside him—purred with satisfaction. "I want you to be afraid."
He fed on their fear first.
It was easy—easier than breathing. He pushed into their minds, found every nightmare, every insecurity, every secret terror, and he *amplified* it. The man saw his mother dying of cancer again. The woman felt the cold hands of her abusive father on her skin.
They screamed.
Stiles smiled.
Then he fed on their blood.
The first taste was ecstasy. Pure, undiluted life flooding into him, filling the empty spaces, making him *more*. He drank until their hearts stopped. Until their fear faded into nothing.
He dropped the bodies.
Two humans. Dead by his hand.
*The werewolf curse requires a kill to trigger.*
Stiles felt it happen—the curse awakening inside him, coiling like a snake in his chest. It would be weeks until the first full moon. Until he lost control completely.
But for now?
For now, he just felt *powerful*.
He looked down at the bodies. At the blood on his hands. At the gray morning sky.
*You will do bad things. Terrible things.*
He wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
*Do them for the right reasons.*
Stiles turned and walked back toward his jeep.
He didn't look back.
The Longest Morning
The jeep pulled into the Stilinski driveway just as the sun cleared the trees.
Stiles killed the engine and sat for a moment, his hands still on the steering wheel. The blood had dried on his clothes, flaking off in rust-colored patches. His skin felt tight. His mouth tasted like copper.
*You just killed two people.*
He waited for the guilt to hit him.
It didn't.
He waited for panic, for nausea, for the screaming in his head that should have come with taking two human lives.
Nothing.
*That's the Nogitsune,* he thought. *That's me now.*
He thought about Noah. About Emma. About Claudia, who had died when he was nine, who had held him and loved him and never once made him feel like he wasn't hers.
*They knew,* he realized. *They knew I was adopted. And they never told me.*
He should be angry. Maybe he was, somewhere deep down. But mostly he just felt... tired. And hungry. And very, very alone.
Stiles got out of the jeep.
The front door was unlocked. His dad never locked it—Beacon Hills was supposed to be safe, or at least safer than the city. Stiles stepped inside and paused, listening.
The house was quiet.
Upstairs, he heard breathing. Slow. Steady. *Emma.*
His sister—older by one year, sixteen, a sophomore who thought she knew everything and was wrong about half of it—was still asleep. Her heartbeat was a soft rhythm. Her room smelled like lavender and old books and the strawberry shampoo she'd been using since middle school.
*She's not really your sister,* a voice whispered. *Not by blood.*
Stiles pushed the thought away.
*She's my sister,* he told himself firmly. *Blood doesn't matter. She's my sister.*
He stood in the hallway for a long moment, just listening to her breathe.
*She's safe,* he told himself. *That's what matters.*
He checked his dad's room. Empty. The bed was made with military precision. Noah was already at work, probably drowning in paperwork, blissfully unaware that his son had died and come back to life in the last nine hours.
*And unaware that I know the truth now,* Stiles thought. *The truth about the adoption.*
*Good,* he thought. *Keep it that way. For now.*
His phone was dead. He plugged it in and watched the screen flicker to life.
Seventeen missed messages. Nine from Emma. Five from Betty. Three from Scott.
The most recent one was from Emma, sent twenty minutes ago:
**Emma (6:13 AM):** *stiles i swear to god if you're not home by the time i wake up i'm telling dad you're missing*
Stiles typed back:
**Stiles (6:45 AM):** *i'm home. showering. don't freak out.*
Three dots appeared immediately. Emma was already awake.
**Emma (6:45 AM):** *you're an idiot*
**Emma (6:45 AM):** *i was about to call the police*
**Emma (6:46 AM):** *and then dad would have been embarrassed because he IS the police*
**Emma (6:46 AM):** *we're talking about this later*
Stiles smiled. It felt strange on his face—like a mask he was still learning to wear.
**Stiles (6:47 AM):** *yeah. okay. later.*
He set the phone down and went to the bathroom.
---
The shower was hot. Almost too hot. Stiles stood under the spray and watched the water run pink, then red, then clear. The blood circled the drain—two people's worth of life, spinning away into nothing.
He scrubbed his skin raw. His hands. His face. The blood was gone, but he could still feel it. Still taste it.
*You will do bad things.*
He laughed. It was a hollow sound, echoing off the tiles.
"Mom," he said to the steam, not sure which mother he was talking to—Claudia or the woman in the Between. "You really knew how to sell a pep talk."
He stayed in the shower until the water ran cold.
His bedroom smelled the same. Old socks. Deodorant. The faint musk of a teenage boy who didn't clean enough.
Stiles stood in the doorway and looked at his room like he'd never seen it before.
Posters on the walls. A desk buried under textbooks and empty energy drink cans. The laptop he'd used a thousand times for research, for gaming, for staying up way too late watching conspiracy videos on YouTube.
It looked like a kid's room.
He didn't feel like a kid anymore.
There was a knock on his door. Emma's knock—three quick raps, then a pause, then two more.
"You decent?" she called.
"Define decent."
She pushed the door open anyway. Emma stood in the doorway in her pajamas—an old band t-shirt and fuzzy socks—her dark hair still tangled from sleep. She looked at him with those sharp eyes that missed nothing.
"You look like crap," she said.
"Thanks. You too."
She didn't laugh. She stepped into the room and crossed her arms. "Where were you last night?"
"Just driving."
"All night?"
"I got lost." It wasn't even a lie. "Ended up in the woods. Fell asleep in the jeep."
Emma studied his face. Stiles could feel her looking for cracks, for tells, for the thing he wasn't saying. She'd always been able to read him better than anyone.
"You're lying," she said finally. "Or at least... you're not telling me everything."
Stiles held her gaze. For a moment, he wanted to tell her. Wanted to say, *Hey, Em, did you know I'm adopted? Did you know I'm not actually your brother? Also, I died last night and came back as a vampire-werewolf-fox demon tribrid. No big deal.*
But he didn't.
"I'm fine, Em. Really."
"You're not." Her voice was quiet. "But you will be. Eventually." She stepped forward and punched him in the arm—lightly, the way she used to when they were kids. "Don't scare me like that again."
"I'll try."
"Try harder." She walked to the door, then paused. "Dad's worried about you too, you know. He just doesn't know how to say it."
*Because he's keeping a secret,* Stiles thought. *The same way I am now.*
"I know," he said instead.
Emma left. The door clicked shut behind her.
Stiles turned to his window.
He walked to the window. His window faced the Cooper house—always had, ever since they were kids. He could see Betty's room from here. The yellow curtains she'd picked out when they were twelve. The potted plant on the sill that she always forgot to water.
He looked through the gap in his curtains.
Betty's window was dark. No movement. No silhouette.
She wasn't there.
*She's with Scott,* he realized. *She stayed at Scott's.*
The thought should have hurt. Maybe it did, somewhere deep down where he could still feel things. But mostly it just felt... distant. Like a memory of pain, not the pain itself.
Stiles pulled the curtain closed.
He turned to his bed. The sheets were rumpled from yesterday morning. He should lie down. He should sleep.
Except...
He didn't feel tired.
Not just "not tired"—like, *not capable* of being tired. His body felt wired. Electric. Like he'd just drunk ten cups of coffee but without the jitters.
*Right,* he thought. *Vampire. Dead people don't need sleep.*
He snorted.
"Technically, I'm dead," he said to the empty room. Then he laughed—a real laugh, sharp and bitter and just a little unhinged. "That's hilarious. I'm hilarious. Dead and adopted and hilarious."
He sat down at his desk and opened his laptop.
Research & Reality
The internet was a cesspool of misinformation.
Stiles typed "vampires" into the search bar and got back three million results, ninety-nine percent of which were either bad fanfiction or clickbait articles about "real-life vampires" who just liked drinking blood from straws.
But his birth mother had said something important: *Every story has a little bit of truth in it.*
So he started digging.
**Garlic:** According to the internet, vampires were repelled by it. Stiles grabbed a clove from the kitchen—his dad kept a jar of pre-minced garlic in the fridge—and held it to his nose.
Nothing.
He rubbed it on his skin.
Nothing.
He ate a spoonful.
It tasted like garlic. His stomach didn't revolt. His throat didn't close up.
"Garlic is a no," he muttered, typing a note.
**Mirrors:** He walked to the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror.
His reflection stared back at him.
Same face. Same moles. Same tired eyes. Except... no. Something was different. His irises had a faint ring of red-violet around the pupils. Almost invisible, but there.
"I can see myself," he said. "So that's fake too."
**Sunlight:** He cracked open his curtains just enough to let a sliver of light through. It hit his hand.
Nothing.
No smoke. No burning. No dramatic disintegration.
"Resistance to most standard vampiric weaknesses," he recited, remembering his mother's words. "Yeah, I guess that's one way to put it."
**Stakes through the heart?** He wasn't about to test that one.
**Holy water?** He didn't have any. And honestly, he doubted it would work.
**Invitations?** He'd walked into his own house without an invitation. He lived here. Probably fine.
He spent two hours cross-referencing folklore, mythology, and "eyewitness accounts" from people who were almost certainly crazy. Every so often, he found something that matched what his mother had told him—soul absorption, hemokinesis, the ability to turn into mist.
*Every story has a little bit of truth.*
He bookmarked the useful pages.
Then he started researching werewolves.
And Nogitsune.
And Originals.
And everything else he was going to have to face.
Before last night, Stiles had thought the supernatural was just stories. Something you watched in movies or read about in comic books. Something that didn't exist in the real world.
He had been very, very wrong.
And somewhere in the back of his mind, a new question was forming—one he wasn't ready to answer yet:
*If Noah and Claudia kept the adoption a secret for sixteen years... what else haven't they told him?*
Meanwhile, at the McCall House
Betty sat cross-legged on Scott's bed, picking at a loose thread on his comforter.
Scott was at his desk, spinning a pencil between his fingers, pretending to be focused on his homework. Neither of them had said the words yet. They'd been dancing around it all morning.
"We have to tell him," Betty said finally.
Scott stopped spinning the pencil. "I know."
"It's not fair to keep it from him. He's our best friend."
"He's *your* best friend," Scott said quietly. "I've only known him for a couple of years. You've known him your whole life."
Betty looked up. Scott's face was unreadable—half guilty, half scared, all teenage boy who had no idea what he was doing.
"This isn't just about me and you," Betty said. "This is about all three of us. Stiles deserves to know."
Scott nodded slowly. "Okay. How do we tell him?"
Betty chewed her lip. "I don't know. 'Hey, Stiles, remember that party? Well, I thought you were you but you weren't you, and now I'm pregnant with Scott's baby'? That sounds insane."
"It *is* insane."
"Thank you, Captain Obvious."
Scott stood up and paced to the window. His room faced the street. If he craned his neck, he could almost see the Stilinski house.
"Movie night," he said.
Betty blinked. "What?"
"Movie night. We invite Stiles over. Watch something dumb. Eat pizza. And then... we tell him." Scott turned to face her. "Low pressure. Familiar. He's less likely to freak out if we're all sitting on the couch watching Star Wars."
"You want to tell him I'm pregnant during *Star Wars*?"
"I want to tell him when he's comfortable." Scott sat down next to her on the bed. "He's been weird lately, Betty. You've noticed, right? Distant. Quieter than usual."
Betty had noticed. Of course she had. Stiles was her best friend. She knew every version of him—the hyper one, the sarcastic one, the sad one he tried to hide. Lately, she'd been seeing more of the sad one.
"Something's going on with him," she agreed. "And we're about to add more on his plate."
"We can't change that." Scott took her hand. "But we can be honest with him. And we can tell our parents together. After we tell Stiles."
Betty squeezed his fingers. "You really think this is going to work?"
"No," Scott admitted. "But it's the best idea I've got."
Betty laughed. It was small and tired and not very funny, but it was something.
"Star Wars it is," she said. "I'll text him."
She pulled out her phone and typed:
**Betty (9:34 AM):** *Hey. You up? Scott and I were thinking movie night tonight. Star Wars. Your place or ours. Let me know.*
She hit send.
Three dots appeared. Then disappeared. Then appeared again.
**Stiles (9:36 AM):** *sure. my place. 7pm.*
**Betty (9:36 AM):** *You okay? You seem... different.*
**Stiles (9:37 AM):** *just tired. long night. see you at 7.*
Betty stared at the message.
*Long night.*
She thought about the text he'd sent at 2:47 AM. *I just needed some air.*
Something was wrong. She could feel it.
But she didn't know what.
Not yet.
---
*End of Chapter One